


superman has one (1) fear

by livingtheobsessedlife



Category: DCU, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Airplanes, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, and by superheroes I only mean Clark Kent, and so does bruce, hand holding, he's our resident dumbass today but it's okay we love him, superheroes being normal and also dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingtheobsessedlife/pseuds/livingtheobsessedlife
Summary: Funnily enough, Clark Kent’s biggest fear is flying.





	superman has one (1) fear

**Author's Note:**

> as a die-hard marvel fan this was incredibly outside of my comfort zone but I did it and hey I don't hate it

Superman’s supposed to be fearless. And he really is. Really, in the broadest sense of the word. He’ll take on anything for the sake of the earth- would commit the ultimate sacrifice four times over without a second thought, throw himself headfirst into the boiling sun if it meant any good, but even fearless beings have their kryptonite, the one thing that’ll truly make them shake in their boots. Contrary to what one might expect, Clark Kent’s biggest fear isnt some fancy green rock.

Funnily enough, Clark Kent’s biggest fear is flying.

It’s ironic, you know, considering the whole ‘most powerful being on earth, gifted with the power of flight’ thing, but it isn’t the one-arm-outstretched, civilians pointing to the sky and smiling at the bolt of red and blue as it flashes past kind of flying that Clark’s afraid of. It’s the ‘getting into a giant metal can with 150 other people and being catapulted into the sky by rocket fuel alone with absolutely no control of what direction his body goes in’ kind that freaks Clark out. 

“Bruce,” Clark murmurs, voice low and ragged but pitched just a little bit by fear. The rest of the justice league have already loaded on board, and Bruce’s last piece of luggage is waiting by his ankles. Clark probably should’ve dealt with this hours ago, “I can’t get on that jet.”

Bruce very easily does that thing where his eyes go heavy and he sinks into the Batman glare- it’s so easily it’s like flicking a switch or pulling a mask down over his eyes. If Clark hadn’t had a superhuman grip on Bruce’s forearm, he probably would’ve just swept past Superman with a scoff and a roll of the eyes. Instead, his feet remain grounded.

“Why the hell not, Kent?” He demands, and Clark, in his defense, feels monumentally bad. 

“I don’t like- you know- airplanes. Things that fly.”

Bruce’s glare fades into the driest expression imaginable. His shoulders look heavy from exhaustion, Clark can see the tight tiredness of his muscles without even using his x-ray vision.

“Clark,” Bruce says, admittedly rather patient, “You can fly.”

“I know I can it’s just- not like that.”

Clark didn’t expect Bruce to get it. It’s not a logic thing. 

In fact, Clark’s inexplicable fear defies logic. Logically, Clark knows that the people behind the helm of this machine he’s being asked to board are probably more familiar with its flight mechanics than Clark is with that of his own body. He knows the statistics, is familiar with all the science and engineering and decades of progress that were poured into the scientific wonder parked perfectly before him. But there’s also an illogical part of Clark that whispers _what if_ and stumbles off into a profane firing squad of _crap crap crap crap crap_. 

“You’re afraid,” Bruce remarks, saying the words that Clark had so obviously been avoiding, “You’re afraid of flying in an airplane.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I can just meet you-“

“No,” Bruce cuts him off almost immediately, “They’re looking for you, Clark. The whole world’s got their eyes glued to the sky trying to catch a peak at Superman. Governments have satellites working around the clock attempting to pinpoint your location. We need to go in under the radar, and we need you there with us when we land. My jet’s the way to do that. I need you to face your fears and board.”

Clark swallows nervously. 

“Can you do that, Clark?”

“It- uh- doesn’t look like I have much of a choice.”

Bruce leans down and throws his duffel bag over his shoulder, “That’s because you don’t. Come on.”

Clark follows nervously after Bruce, this weird irreproachable feeling at the bottom of his stomach trying to tell him he’s being led to the electric chair or something. 

The rest of the Justice League is already on board when Clark climbs the steps, taking in the lavish, leather-plated cabin of Bruce’s personal jet. He’s standing there in near-shock when Batman takes a seat at the front, peeling out from in front of Clark to settle into a large, comfy looking chair.

At the back of the jet, Flash looks like he’s having the time of his life. His feet are propped up, he has large headphones over his ears, and he’s sipping a drink that appears to be apple juice, looking utterly like the cat that ate the canary (or in this case, rather, the twenty-year-old who ate the free food). Diana’s perched in her own seat, looking as regal and proper as ever, legs crossed and busying herself with a folder of papers that no doubt are all written in different languages. Cyborg sits ramrod straight just behind Diana, eyes forward and concentrated as unseen binary passes before his eyes. It’s a scene Clark has witnessed a million times before. With the watermark of his impending phobia, it feels completely different now. 

Clark immediately sits down directly next to Bruce. He doesn’t even think about it. 

There’s a certain detached bustle that only Clark feels privy to as the jet is closed up and the flight crew readies for takeoff. As the engines begin to spin, Clark shuts his eyes as closed as possible, tightens his fists around the armrests so tightly that the metal begins to bend and screech beneath his fingers, conforming to the bodily strength of Clark’s very real fear. 

The whole world is roaring around him and Clark’s so infinitely aware of the sounds the plane is making, the hunka-hunka of the whirring engine, the staticky AM/FM calls from the nearest airway controller, the sound of the two flight attendants laughing as they prepare for takeoff. The whole world is roaring, screaming, tearing at him from the inside out when suddenly it all stops. Superman locks up. There are holes in the armrests the shape of Clark’s fingers, his chest is healing, and Superman is having a panic attack on a jet while Bruce Wayne very casually sits next to him.

Superman is having a panic attack. 

Superman is having a panic attack and nobody so much as looks up from whatever they’re doing.

Then there’s a hand around his, soft and warm and sudden but sure. It almost feels like a phantom comfort the way Clark’s eyes are screwed together, but he finds his heart eating diminishing anyway. The hand persists soft and even around his, a warm, heavy weight. Soon enough, Clark has the courage to pry one of his eyes open, peers down at his hand and-

It’s Bruce’s hand, wrapped kindly around his own. 

Clark feels his heart rate continue to slow to an even pace, eyes transfixed on Bruce’s hand. 

Bruce looks entirely unperturbed by the way he’s lending Clark his hand. In fact, he continues to scribble in the margins of some official-looking WayneCorp monthly report with his other (non-dominant) hand. 

A little while later and Clark realizes… he’s completely at ease. Completely, utterly. 

The only other time his heart rate is this steady is when, well, when he’s flying, flying on his own, among the clouds, warm and free and inundated with the feeling of _this is where you belong_. It’s weird, and kinda wonderful, and when Clark finds the courage in himself to look up at Bruce’s face, he feels his heart skip a beat. 

Clark, with every fiber of his being, wants to stand up and cheer, “_Hey, league! Guess what! I’m not worried anymore! I’m flying, we’re flying, and everything’s okay!_”

But he doesn’t say that, because even a Kansas boy like him knows that that would be a surefire way to make Diana look at him with that funny look she has when Flash stumbles over himself trying to flirt with her, and more importantly, it would undoubtedly make Bruce remove his hand from his, and that’s the last thing Clark wants. 

So he just sits there quietly, allowing the spot where Bruce’s hand touches his to be his centre for the whole of the five hour flight. Clark even lets himself drift into a comfortable sleep, an unimaginable peace for an aviophobe.

He wakes up about four hours later to the sound of the pilot over the intercom, “Mr. Wayne,” The pilot mumbles, full of static as well as the upright professionalism that Clark has ever truly witnessed channeled at Bruce himself, “We will be beginning our descent in a moment. You and your guests will need to buckle up, sir.”

Bruce wordlessly begins to move, bends to stow his papers and in the process of it takes his hand away. Clark visibly tenses, makes a hasty grab at Bruce’s hand, heart rate increasing already as he fumbles for his grounding wire. 

“Clark,” Bruce says, voice calm and low and reassuring, “I got you, okay? Can I put my stuff away real quick?”

Clark nods, his hand on the opposite side from Bruce maintaining a newfound death grip around the arm rest. Bruce, to his credit, hurries to unzip his briefcase. 

Tilting minutely in its descent, the plane dips suddenly, then shakes perilously as it coasts through a white cloud. Clark unapologetically yelps out in surprise, the flimsy, heartbeat-less armrests his only sojourn. He’s never felt so tense. 

As quickly as possible, though it feels like decades to Clark, Bruce’s hand reaches out back toward the despair of Clark’s, tense and needy. 

“I got you,” Bruce murmurs again. Nobody else appears to hear them. His voice becomes a mantra, a song in Clark’s ear, a lullaby, “Just breathe, Clark. Just breathe, okay? I got you.”

The planes continues to face regular turbulence as it makes its descent tens of thousands of miles through the sky, but Clark is less and less aware of how high above the hard ground they are, focusing solely on the strength required to not crush Bruce’s hand. 

His breathing grows even. Bruce’s thumb passes calmly over the back of Clark’s palm. For a moment, everything is okay. 

Then Bruce squeezes just a little tighter and leans in smoothly, voice somehow pitched even lower softer. His thumb moves in calming circles, “Clark, we’re about to hit the ground, okay? This is the hardest part. It’s just a bump. Breathe, Clark, breathe. Can you do that for me? Breathe in and-,”

The plane hits the ground that jostles the equipment more than any turbulence had. The engines scream as the wheels seek traction on the cement runway, and Clark very briefly feels sealed into his own coffin, forgets how to breathe. Then suddenly he’s just… okay. 

He’s fine. Clark’s completely fine. 

“My name’s Jason, I’ve been your pilot today. I hope you enjoyed the ride, sir,” The pilot’s voice casts over the sound speakers with this defining finality. One of the stewardesses opens the hatch that peels out into steps on the tarmac. 

Behind them, Victor is kicking Barry awake and Diana is primly collecting her bags. 

Clark finally feels like he can truly breathe. For a moment, Bruce doesn’t remove his hand from Clark’s and everything’s perfect. 

Then Barry’s making this almost painful-sounding snort as he jolts awake, causing his typical commotion as he reverts to consciousness. Diana struts off the plane. Bruce takes back his hand, and Clark feels more empty than he has any right to. 

He lets Victor and Barry clamber off before he even dares himself to move. 

“You know we’re on the ground again, Kent? You can go now. Unless you’re afraid of private islands for some reason too?”

Clark grins, “And what if I was? Would you hold my hand then too?”

It’s not what he means to say, and it’s not the answer Bruce was fishing for. Hell, it’s incredibly bold for the self-righteous all-American boy from Kansas that Clark has found himself to embody, but it’s the only response he can’t think of. 

Bruce draws another, half-hearted circle against Clark’s hand, then lets go. 

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t believe that, Supes,” He goades Clark into moving his feet, one in front of the other, so that they pool at the bottom of the unfolding stairs, feet finally on solid ground. His voice drops again, that sweet-spot volume that the others have somehow missed for the past five hours, his mouth close to Clark’s ear. Clark can practically feel Bruce’s smirk against his hairline, “You’re fearless, aren’t you?”

Clark doesn’t say it aloud because it would be highly inappropriate, and he at least knows that, but he does have one fear. It’s not flying, not anymore. It’s of losing Bruce.


End file.
